


i couldn’t know why i was so lost in you

by sodapoppie



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 14:44:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19175455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodapoppie/pseuds/sodapoppie
Summary: Actually, Arthur is so lost in himself. He’s gray, pale, just as how the ghost in front of him should be — but it was so colorful it blinded his eyes.





	i couldn’t know why i was so lost in you

**Author's Note:**

> hi i don't even know what i'm doing !!! it's a birthday gift so happy birthday to my anon but surely here friend, i know it sucks, don't blame me.  
> first of all, i'm not part of the fandom so i'm so sorry if there's something *so* weird, i tried. second of all, arthur's numbers are the odds. i had planned to do something curt-centered with the even numbers but, honestly, my brain was so off. also english is not my mother language and i have lots of trust issues so !! bye !!
> 
> the title song is from nuest's goodbye bye.

1.

It has been years since Arthur Stuart started to dream in black and white and almost every single one of the characters that appeared there had a strong, hard American accent. That’s rough. He knows he buried his memories about the United Kingdom a long, long, time ago —but with the successful outcome of the recent events, Arthur kind of thought that something, well, would arouse.

Apparently, he was wrong. Not even one British accent in his dreams.

A voice in off sounds in his head —that one everybody hears in his own one, or almost everybody, it’s his first time actually. That voice is burbling that line he doesn’t know to what associate with, that specific line which says that _histories, like ancient ruins, are the fictions of empires_ , and well, God, he has lived a hell of a history. It all started with the one he buried but had to unearth it –Brian Slide and all the stuff. All the people he asked for an interview because that was his damn job. Then, Curt Wild and his Oscar Wilde’s, as he said the last time they meet, green pin. And Arthur thought that Curt Wild and his green pin closed that history, too. And when he saw the headlines (“ _Curt Wild Lost it again_ ”, “ _Not only his Music Career but now Curt Wild himself is Dead too_ ”, and a lot of bad captions that Arthur didn’t bother to mind) of that specific day, he thought he was right for once. But he wasn’t. And he is not sure if he actually wishes it would be nice or not to happen.

The first time Curt’s ghost appeared in his dreams was during the first week after Curt’s death itself. The first thing the ghost mumbled is _hey_  and then _make a wish_ and then disappeared again. The next morning Arthur doesn’t believe what happened and just stares at his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom. But, well, he’s pretty sure that he usually doesn’t dream about ghosts.

He remembers a sky, Curt Wild and a rooftop. He remembers the green pin he has hidden in the very own depths of his wardrobe, stuffed in a little, shutbox which he knows exists, but he isn’t brave enough to open it again. He remembers following Curt Wilds’s glance to that sky when he tells him there’s a falling star. He remembers it and maybe, just maybe, it’s enough for now. But he knows himself, the Arthur Stuart he has kind of buried with these memories, and knows he’s going to refrain himself from thinking about that.

 

3.

It’s because of a random guy he sees in the middle of the Central Park, who was, casually, just doing the usual things someone does at a park –walking, watching trees, what the hell does he know–, that Arthur Stuart opens that little, not now shut box which is hidden in the very own depths of his wardrobe. That poor boy was just playing with a small, green pin, which a tired Arthur swore was the one in his dresser… and so boasts to the guy. His own voice is enough to him to rethink about it and to say to himself that, well, it would be pretty difficult, not to say impossible, for that poor guy to simply get into his flat and turn the house upside down for a pin. So, he murmurs a low _sorry_ and leaves.

 _I’m just tired_ , he thinks, but looks for the box just in case. Now Arthur’s just laying in his bed, which is all white, grey and kind of messy (because he’s quite tired these days), with that box at his left and that pin between his fingers, running between them. He was just being anxious, so tries to calm the hell down, tries to breathe regularly again –as he leaves the pin upon his night-table and stares at that tacky and cheap and boring light bulb which hangs sadly from the grey ceiling of the flat where he lives. His house is, just a graphic representation of Arthur himself, in all his glory.

At least he has been —or has been feeling— ugly and cheap and boring and white and grey almost for his entire life, but then he met Curt Wild and they just… fit. That sounds so sappy, so silly it hurts, but Arthur feels it that way; everything was wrong and then, in one minute, everything was a little less wrong and a little more right. A little more colourful, if you would prefer this way.

Anyways, not the point. He decides to leave the pin where it is instead of burying it in his wardrobe, all sad and mundane, again.

 

5.

The night which Curt’s ghost appeared, it happened that Arthur was washing his teeth and almost screams his lungs out. Okay, he did think about ghosts when he was younger (with the Brian Slade’s accident and all its jazz), but he did not think they would look that… real, like, the person behind him, who he was watching from his mirror in his poorly illuminated bathroom, was Curt Wild. Just a little too fuzzy and blurred. A little too sad. Arthur remembers Curt’s energy like he remembers his own family, clear like crystal, but he looks so, so tired now.

So, so tired, it looks like that fatigue makes him mad and sad. And that fatigue, that exhaustion (for something he is not sure about, but something he can suppose, can try to get it right —maybe, if he was confident enough) catch Arthurabsent-minded...

Now that the lights are on, not just the poor one from the mirror itself, but the proper, big, _spotlight_ (which is now shadowing his sharp nose and sunken cheekbones), Arthur wants to say something, but that was, mainly, Curt’s job.

So it is.

“Hi,” he says, with a sad half-smile. Like it’s nothing “long time no see, Arthur. Can I have a seat?”

Arthur smiles, then, because there are no seats in his ( _in any?_ ) bathroom and it’s a bit funny. Or he’s just tired. That’s maybe the reason why he’s talking with Curt Wild, who’s supposedly dead. But it’s ok, so he decides to talk back, now looking at him and not his reflection in the mirror.

“Yeah, have a seat.”

“Would prefer not the toilet, Arthur.”

“Then you would prefer” Arthur repeats, moking Curt’s words “to bring yourself to the lounge. Don’t know if you know the way — you just appeared here.”

“Not really. Do you know ghost exists because they have no place to go? I would be in hell if I knew the way.”

 

The atmosphere is familiar, Arthur feels comfortable, now in his red sofa and Curt’s supposed ghost in the armchair he usually used for reading. Curt has the same expression as always, just a little too sadder, as Arthur thought before when they were in the bathroom. It’s weird, though, because he doesn’t think he is actually talking with a ghost.

Curt Wild would never be a ghost, at least not for him. He has —or had— such a presence, a charismatic aura which catches Arthur in a way he is not even able to explain, he just feels like this is the right moment, like Curt is the right person and yeah, and it kind of sounds like a _cliché_ , but _what’s exactly the problem, Arthur?_ and he realizes there’s not a single one.

 

7.

It took a whole week and Curt’s ghost disappearing again for Arthur Stuart to conclude that _yeah, it was actually a ghost_ or that _Curt’s really living his best life and I’m only hallucinating_ , because, you know, it would not be the first time someone tries to fool him with death and all the jazz that concerns it . It has never been a steady relationship, if you ask him, so Arthur is not even surprised about Curt’s behaviour —and maybe he likes it, the aftertaste of _I want this_ and the lack of awareness about _when he’s going to appear again_.

Still, he wants to meet him again. Not only in his dreams or his bathroom or his red sofa when he felt the urgent bloom of their lips together, but, you know, _with him_. Arthur thinks about it at work, distracting himself from his boss, who’s not even talking to him and neither _trying to_ do so; but Arthur can hear his voice, rough and distinct. He decides, however, that the poor man is talking to himself out loud, as it wouldn’t be the first time he does some researches.

 

9.

It happens that ghosts have their own business to do. And maybe it’s something obvious but, you can’t blame him, like, he didn’t have the opportunity to think about ghosts before—Curt’s is, in fact, and he feels strange and weird and a little off of himself saying this, the first ghost he has interacted with.

And, for real, Curt’s ghost is the first ghost he has found himself _wanting to_ kiss. Which is not a big deal if you think that they fucked each other in the past but… God, his ghost? Everything is an opportunity to know yourself, even in the oddest, strangest things.

“What’s the matter, Arthur?” Curt’s voice comes softly, slowly, and talks straight to his heart. Arthur finds it as _cute_ as _bizarre_.

Arthur debates with himself about the matters. He can, obviously, go ahead and say “this is weird as hell, Curt” or “I don’t actually understand what you are trying to say. Curt, what do you want, coming here, looking for me” or “I think I wanna kiss you but is weird as hell because you see you’re a ghost”, but he’s all grown now. All grown and all silence, too, loneliness. And he has done some research and he’s not a fool at all  —or maybe sometimes, maybe in the past. If this is a game he wants to play it too, you ‘ll see.

“Hmm” Arthur breathes, softly, and adds: “Nothing really, just tired. What are you doing here, today?”

“After a week, you’re asking.”

“Maybe,” Arthur mumbles, not sure, volatile, in a thin voice which is barely audible.

“Don’t do that to yourself, Arthur.”

And Arthur rises both his eyebrows, because he does not understand what he should not to do to himself. But kills the talk, just to fed himself with another cup of coffee so, maybe, he can finally think about the whole situation and the whole _something_ that is happening on his insides and outsides. What’s the matter, though?  

 

11.

 

Curt’s lips are so close Arthur can indeed feel them, his right hand on his skin and the left one touching, softly, his jawline. Outlining Curt’s features, he can, indeed, feel their lips together, but they are all lies, because Curt’s not kissing him and he’s not kissing Curt and he doesn’t know if he wants to. Obviously, a few days ago he was looking for —more than? His researches didn’t say anything about fucking ghosts, but does he want it now? — a kiss from him, however, something is starting to feel so wrong after that _don’t do that to yourself, Arthur_. Mostly because of the idea of _that_ , which if far away from his knowledge and maybe, yeah, he’s quite upset about a ghost talking about what would be good for him or what he should do or not.

“Damnit, Arthur,” a voice, softly but rough, murmurs.

His body is now pressed between Curt’s own and his red sofa and it doesn’t feel wrong at all —in fact, he’s (kind of) enjoying it: the heat, the known essence of his flat and Curt’s smell of _Winston_ and sweat. Everything, in overall, makes him feel very well-off. He would be pretty fucked up if he would not be at his own home, though, but anyways… is his _house_ actually a _home_? Obviously, he does not think about _home_ as his parents’ house, he never did, and he is so damn glad he left years ago — he feels a little less colorless now, like, he has won a tiny, small, battle. However, his house is, in fact, home, if you ask: itis boring, but so is he when he looks at himself at the mirror, and even if being _boring_ is something bad, does it even care?

Curt’s body is so solid now it does not seem like a ghost’s one. Arthur can feel it when his hands touch Curt’s ribs and his legs brush against the bare skin which shows between the fabric of Curt’s pants, black and ripped. Curt wants it, it’s so crystal clear it hurts, and his way to ask if Arthur wants it too is demandant, almost arrogant.

Does he want it too?

It is a question without answer, though. Because of course he wants it, or, at least, his body does, but does not think is the… the right moment, you know, the right moment to do all of this without knowing anything about it. Curt’s lips have frowned, his eyes looking at him and asking _what the fuck is wrong_ , so does his voice later, a little less aggressive.

Arthur remains silent, uncomfortable, and presses his hands towards Curt’s chest to go quite away from it.

“Oh, so we’re playing now. Great.”, Curt says, sarcastic. And Arthur enjoys these words, too. They’re playful between bitterness.

“I’m not playing around, actually”, Arthur smiles back, a little softer and quieter, less wild and less feral “, just do no kiss me tonight. Do not” he repeats, after laughing at Curt’s eyes frowned, shrugging “do it.”

“You do not look as someone who does not want to be kissed right now, Arthur, but it’s okay.” with consent, slowly, and, with his facial expression still browned off, Curt retires his hands from Arthur’s waist. He can be a lot of things but at least can understand what means being told to _don’t_.

It’s not easy to breathe, if you ask him. At all. Maybe it is okay for Curt because, you know, he does not _have to_ breathe, but Arthur finds it impossibly difficult and it annoys him. He just can’t express it the same way Curt does —it’s his way of thinking, his way to be and to act, and he just can’t help but being _that way_. That’s what makes him Arthur Stuart, after all, and after a long, long time of being just a grey scale in a form of a human, he’s fine and comfortable being _the way he is_.

Arthur takes a short breath of air, eyes glowing and smiling with determination even if his mouth is a little bit frowned, closed uncomfortably. He bites his bottom lip as a child would do, and feels Curt’s body relaxing on top of him, a little, soft laugh can be heard. And it relaxes Arthur in a way he didn’t remember he _could_ be relaxed. It’s not like he lives in constant tension, but, yeah, maybe he is an anxious person; even if, on the outside, he usually does not show it. 

_And he kisses him._

He does not know if Curt’s lips, even being a ghost in that exactly, precisely moment, the taste still the same or if Arthur actually remembers them _that well_. It sounds difficult, though, but not _impossible_ , knowing him and his dumb crushing on Curt Wild. However, they are kissing now, lips against lips and chest against chest, Curt bites his tongue, not softly but _softly_ enough to don’t hurt Arthur, but, still, he pushed Curt off. A strange, confident smile on his face.

“That’s not cool, you know, Arthur. You used to like it”

“I _liked_ it the only time you did it. And I was high as fuck, so, please, be gentle now” he’s joking around, though, this time. He likes Curt with his bitterness, his sharpness, with that little light ( _uh_ ) of grief on his eyes.

“Now you want me to be gentle”

“You’ve always been”


End file.
